


Home for Christmas

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is years later, and Dean has resigned himself to another lonely Christmas.  Fate drops other plans in his backyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for Christmas

Dean is woken from his slumber by a loud crash coming from somewhere outside. He has been dozing on the couch, sleeping to try and avoid thinking about the fact that he should be with Sammy right now, but isn’t.

He sits up, rubbing a hand over his face and glancing out the window. The snow is still piling fast, coming down in sheets of frosty whiteness that make it hard to see more than a few feet away from the house. Coming down hard and fast enough that all flights out of the surrounding area have been cancelled, which is the reason he’s not on his way to California and to Sam and Sam’s family now. As much as he loves and trusts his Impala, even he won’t risk driving in this, and even at her fastest, he’d never make it by Christmas tomorrow.

“The hell was that?” he wonders aloud, pressing his face to the window to try and make out what could have caused such a disturbance. Absently, he bends down to rub a hand over the dark gray cat that has pressed herself against his right leg. Deciding he’s not going to discover anything just standing here and guessing, he sighs and tugs on his boots and leather jacket. “I’ll be right back, Angel,” he says softly to the cat, who is cocking her head at him and meowing.

When he opens the door, a sharp, biting wind stabs him in the face, and he’s instantly coated in a layer of snow, but he makes his way out with a hand shielding his eyes and looks around warily. He doesn’t hunt much anymore, there isn’t much around to hunt anymore, but every once in a while, something makes its way to this place looking for him. It would be typical if, trapped here over Christmas and away from his brother, in the worst snowstorm this area has seen in five years, he ended up needing to kill something.

He stomps through the foot and a half of snow, but isn’t really getting anywhere. He can’t make out anything in front of him more than a little ways, and the wind is a loud and shrill whistle in his ears. He’d like to get back inside before he manages to get frostbite, because _that_ would be typical, too, and he turns to do just that, deciding that if there’s something to hunt, it’ll find _him_ before he finds _it_ , when he sees the blob lying in the mound of snow two feet in front of him.

“The hell?” he says again, taking a few stomps forward and dropping to his knees in the snow. The blob turns out to be a person, or at least person-shaped, and the person-shaped thing is completely unconscious. So, probably not evil, at any rate. He (or she) is also decidedly _not_ dressed for the weather, dressed as they are in a lightweight trench coat.

Wondering if he’s going to regret this, Dean manages to get his hands underneath the shivering form and lifts, grunting a little under the weight, very glad suddenly that he makes sure he stays in shape, no matter if he’s actively hunting or not.

It takes him a lot longer to get back to the house than it took him to get out, burdened as he is by the weight of another person, but he finally manages to make it to the door and get it open, and then he is collapsing inside, dropping the person in an undignified heap on the couch and tumbling into the chair beside it to take a few moments to breathe and warm up a little.

Angel jumps into his lap, purring contentedly despite the fact that he’s frozen, wet, and shivering, and he smirks at her as she nuzzles against him, begging for him to pet her. He indulges her while he catches his breath, and after a few moments, shoos her away so he can stand and find out more about his mystery guest.

The man (because Dean can now at least tell it _is_ at least man-shaped, not just person-shaped) has not moved from where Dean dropped him, and he rolls him over to check him for injuries. He doesn’t get very far, because a shock of recognition runs through him, and he stumbles back, stunned.

_It can’t be…_

It’s been seven years since he last saw his angel. The war ended when Lucifer was trapped back in Hell, and Dean, who’d long since given up his body to host Michael in an act of desperation, was granted a single miracle…he was given his life back, given his _body_ back, whole and healthy and not the burned-out husk it was supposed to be. The angels had left, one at a time, until only one remained… He’d been given a small, sad half-smile, a nod, and the press of a hand to his own, quick and feather-light and then gone a moment later, just as the angel was.

_Castiel._

It _has_ to be Castiel. Dean just spoke with Jimmy not two hours ago, when he’d called to wish him a Merry Christmas from he and his family. There was no angel inhabiting him then, and he’s positive that Castiel has learned enough of humans to not take him from his family on Christmas.

Still not willing to believe it quite yet, Dean takes a hesitant step forward and brushes his hand (which is will swear up and down is _not_ shaking) over the familiar cap of messy dark hair. His fingers tingle with that familiar power he’s always attributed to the angels, and he’s dropped to his knees before he even realizes it. “Cas…” he says, and the word, the _name_ , comes out choked.

The sound of his voice seems to be enough to draw the angel back to consciousness, because he lets out a low moan and blinks startling blue eyes open. They take in the ceiling they’re staring up at for a moment, and then suddenly he’s sitting up and staring around. “What happened? Where am I?” Those eyes finally land on Dean, who’s staring up at him in still-numb shock, and widen in realization or recognition or both.

“Cas?” Dean says again, that single word the only thing he seems to be able to manage. His voice trembles, because he’s really not sure this isn’t some incredibly vivid dream.

If it is a dream, he hopes to God he just sleeps for the next hundred years or so, because the angel smiles at him as the tension drains from his limbs, and a moment later, he is on the floor in front of Dean, one hand raised and pressed against his cheek. “Dean. I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t…how are you…” He can’t form a single coherent thought, can’t even blink against the penetrating gaze focused on him for the first time in too long.

“You should not have to be alone on Christmas. You told me that, that last year before Michael took you, remember?”

Dean remembers, remembers trying to be casual as he asked Castiel to spend the holiday with him and Sam, remembers a day of laughter and friendship, remembers how relaxed the angel had been, how much a part of the family he’d felt like. He remembers that that night was the first time he’d ever kissed Castiel, first using the sprig of mistletoe as an excuse, and then later just because he knew he could. He remembers that that night was the first time he’d told Castiel he loved him. He takes a shuddering breath to stop from losing himself in those memories.

Castiel’s eyes look sad, and his thumb sweeps the plane of Dean’s cheek, catching a tear Dean does not recall letting fall. “I have worked tirelessly to find a way back to you. I’m so sorry it took so long. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving again, not without you.”

Dean’s eyes have been staring unseeing for many moments now, but at that, they sharpen and zero in on Castiel’s. “Not leaving?” he repeats, unbelieving.

“Not leaving. I swear, Dean, I’m not. I have my father’s blessing to remain here for the duration of your lifetime, and to follow you home when the time comes. I am not Fallen, I have not been cast out…I am merely…taking a vacation? I am…mostly human, for as long as I am here. If you still…want me to be here, of course.”

“I want,” Dean assures, desperate suddenly to get the words out. “I want you. God, I want you. I _love_ you.”

The smile Castiel graces him with is dazzling, radiant and pure and so many other things that, if Dean was aware he was thinking them, he would call girly. “I love you as well, Dean Winchester. Always.”

Dean can’t move, can barely even breathe. He ca only watch as Castiel’s smile turns sly and he tilts his gaze upwards. Following it, Dean lets out a bark of stunned laughter. Hanging above them, suspended by nothing but thought, is a tiny sprig of mistletoe. He doesn’t have time to process the planning Cas put into this before he suddenly has an armful of wet and disheveled angel, and soft lips are pressed against his, and he loses himself in warmth and love and a joy so overwhelming it overtakes everything else.

Outside, the snow continues to fall in endless sheets of white. The phone is ringing insistently, and the clock chimes midnight, signaling that it is officially Christmas. Dean is content to ignore all these things for a long time.


End file.
